


A Very Merry Sainte Claire Christmas

by R_S_B, Sareki



Series: Sainte Claire [2]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Episode: s04e18-19 The Killing Game, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_S_B/pseuds/R_S_B, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sareki/pseuds/Sareki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby and Brigitte exchange letters and gifts as the Christmas of 1937 approaches. (Bobby/Brigitte, P/T (ish), The Killing Game, Rated R for language and sexual content)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. October 20, 1937

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short story that is connected to our larger Sainte Claire saga, which follows the lives of Bobby and Brigitte from The Killing Game. It may not make a ton of sense if you didn’t read our story Summer, so we invite you to take a look at that. 
> 
> Many thanks must go to our wonderful betas CaptAcorn, Delwin, and Photogirl1890. Not only would our work be a slew of typos and grammar errors without them, but they challenge us to produce the best story possible. Please do check out their stories if you aren't familiar with their work. They write some of the best Tom and B'Elanna fic out there. 
> 
> We hope you all enjoy this little Christmas present as you wait for us to write Autumn.

“Oh, dear… did you forget your umbrella?”

It took everything Brigitte had to not shoot a nasty look at the mistress who ran the women’s dormitory. Soaked head to toe, it was quite obvious that Brigitte had forgotten her umbrella that morning. Of course, when she had headed out on what had been an unseasonably warm October day, there had not been a cloud in the sky.

But in the one and a half years that Brigitte had lived at this residence, she had learned to bite her tongue and smile like a proper lady.

“The rain caught me by surprise,” she replied, feeling yet another stream of water make its way down her back.

“Well, make sure you get out of those damp clothes as quick as possible so you don’t catch a cold.”

 _No, I was just going to sit in my room like this._ “I will.”

Brigitte started to head to the stairs when the woman’s voice called again. “Oh, Brigitte, you got a letter.”

That perked Brigitte up. Turning back toward Madame Chéreau, Brigitte wondered if it was from Bobby or Simone. Either way, it would be a positive end to a somewhat exhausting day.

The older woman held out the thick envelope, and Brigitte knew immediately it was from Bobby. He tended to write her novel-sized letters, whereas her correspondences with Simone were more rapid and brief. Although it only took a day or two to get notes back and forth to Simone, it often took a week or two to get letters to Bobby.

Every Monday, they would each mail a letter to one another. Bobby tended to write the letter over the entire week, hence the length. She never really knew how he could find so much to say, but he always seemed to manage somehow. She would typically write her letter to him on Sunday, summarizing her week. She always felt bad that she wasn’t as verbose in her correspondence, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Madame Chéreau gave her a knowing smile as Brigitte plucked the envelope from her hand. By the end of her first semester living here, Chéreau had asked about the very regular envelopes from America. Brigitte had thought it none of her business and replied only that she had an American friend.

The mistress had repeated the word ‘friend’ in such a way as to indicate that she knew exactly what kind of ‘friend’ this American was.

Turning back to the stairs, Brigitte made her way quickly to her room. Once inside, she toed off her completely soaked shoes and placed them near the radiator before divesting herself of the rest of her drenched clothes. Completely naked, she stood in front of the radiator, slowly turning like a chicken on a spit, enjoying the heat on her bare skin. Finishing one rotation, she caught Bobby’s letter out of the corner of her eye, still sitting where she had tossed it on the bed when she entered.

Not bothering to put on any clothes, Brigitte slipped under the covers of her bed. She then ripped open the envelope and began to read.

_October 4, 1937_

_The mail must be slowing down_ , Brigitte thought, since this was over two weeks ago. As he always did, Bobby wrote in French.

_My Dearest Brigitte,_

_As usual, I just returned from the post office, having nearly missed mailing your letter. Again. My classes ending at four in the afternoon has destroyed my post office routine. You are right, I should wake up earlier and send it in the morning. But I just hate getting out of bed, especially when it is cold._

Brigitte shook her head. This had been Bobby's ongoing struggle for most of the semester, trying to get to the post office before it closed. She had told him to just send it on Tuesday, but he protested, reminding her they had a deal.

The letter rambled on, mostly describing his day-to-day activities. He tended to write her while he was in class and bored with whatever was being presented. Nothing of too much consequence: he had a couple papers to write and he still hated his British history class. ( _All their kings have one of three names, Brigitte! I see why we rebelled against them!_ ) The margins of the letter had little doodles, mostly depicting things that were around him at the time.

Snuggling deeper in the bed, Brigitte flipped through the pages, enjoying Bobby’s chatter. She was nearing the end of the letter when she came across a line that made her heart skip a beat.

_So, I was thinking. I have almost a month off at Christmas. What if I came to visit you?_

A visit! Their plans to see each other the previous summer had been thwarted by his father informing him that he needed to work at the mill and Brigitte getting an apprenticeship through the university. She flashed back to the day she'd gotten the letter that had finally confirmed that he would not be coming. ( _My dad will not let me take a month off to come visit you. I have tried to convince him every way possible. But it is not going to happen. My mom said that they would pay for you to come, but this apprenticeship is too important. Please do not give it up. We will figure out something else._ )

She had seriously considered not taking the apprenticeship that summer. But Bobby had told her to take the position, and then Simone told her to stop thinking with her hormones and get her priorities in order.

So Brigitte did.

But now her heart was racing as she quickly read the rest of the letter.

_I do not know exactly how it would work. But I would really like to see Paris with you. And I’m sure you’ll want to be home for Christmas, so we will spend the holiday with your family. What dates are you free? Like I said, nothing is for sure, but I think I can make this work. I really do not want to wait another eight months to see you._

She didn’t want to wait to see him either. She let the letter fall against her chest as she began to picture it: walking along the festively lit Champs-Élysées, hand in hand. Coming back to her room… Her eyes popped open at the realization that he couldn’t stay here. ‘No men allowed upstairs’ was one of the cardinal rules. He would have to stay at a hotel… no, wait, _they_ could stay at a hotel.

Closing her eyes again, Brigitte imagined the fancy hotel that Bobby would book. Huge windows would display an incredible view of the city, and a large, soft bed would dominate the room. He’d gallantly help her out of her coat - and then the rest of her clothes - before leading her over to the bed.

In her mind, she could see him climb into bed after her, his naked body warm and heavy on top of her. Her own hand lazily trailed along her stomach, and she imagined it was his. She could nearly feel his touch, taste his kiss. As her hand trailed lower, alone in her tiny room, Brigitte gave herself over to fantasy.


	2. November 3, 1937

Bobby stared at the envelope in his hand, dread welling in the pit of his stomach. It was postmarked October 21st, a Thursday. Brigitte _always_ sent her letters on Monday. This meant something out of the ordinary had prompted this one.

For instance, his saying he was going to come see her and asking her for dates.

How could he have been so stupid as to have brought it up with her without making sure it would work? A couple weeks after he’d written her that letter, he’d been home for the weekend. Unable to contain his enthusiasm for the idea any longer, he had brought it up to his mother, who had shot the idea down almost immediately.

“Bobby, no,” she had said. “You simply can’t spend Christmas away from your family! And you have to be back at school, when? Mid-January? That gives you at most three weeks to get to France and back. It’s too expensive a trip for you to spend only a few days there. Wait until summer. She can come visit you then.”

Bobby had to concede that she had a point. It was a lot of money for what would, in the end, be less than a week with Brigitte. If only there were some way he could just snap his fingers and materialize in France…

But there wasn’t.

So he had written in his next letter that it wouldn’t work out, and how he was sorry, and how he loved her. But he still felt like a massive ass for even bringing it up.

Now he held in his hand her response to the out of date news that they would be together soon.

He heaved a sigh, and tore open the envelope.

_October 20, 1937_

_Dear Bobby,_

_I’ve just read your most recent letter, dated October 4. I’m beyond excited that you will be here for Christmas! I felt the need to write to you immediately in order to inform you of my availability, so you could make plans without delay._

Bobby skimmed through her paragraph detailing her availability, as it really didn’t matter anymore.

_I’m sure when we are home, my parents would be happy to host you, assuming that sleeping in the living room would be agreeable.  For our time in Paris, please know that you will not be able to stay with me, since men are not allowed in the dormitory. However, I feel terrible that I would not be able to properly host you, and, as such, recommend that we, perhaps, stay together in a hotel?_

Bobby’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest. Was she saying what he thought she was saying?

_If you could please bring an item from America that would make our nights more pleasurable, an item that is not available in France, I’m sure we could make use of it. In fact, bring several._

Bobby audibly groaned. She was saying _exactly_ what he thought she was saying. This really only made the whole situation worse. He momentarily thought of trying to go back to his mother and plead to go to France. Although he didn’t think ‘Brigitte wrote and told me to bring a suitcase full of condoms’ was really an argument that would convince her.

He looked back down at the letter, wondering how this could get any worse.

_Needless to say, I look forward to our time in Paris together._

_On another topic_ (thank God), _I just wanted to remind you of our previous agreement with respect to gifts at Christmas. Your presence, really, would be gift enough_ (he cringed), _but I’m sure you’ll want to give me something else as well. Remember: it has to be something you made. No expensive gifts!_

Bobby flopped back onto his bed. He wished Brigitte had forgotten about this. After last Christmas, when he’d sent her a necklace (that his sister, Helen, assured him was stunning), Brigitte had written to tell him she loved it, but wanted no more expensive gifts. He had responded that he liked giving her beautiful things. She then replied that it was not how one was supposed to celebrate the holiday, but if he must give her something, she would prefer he made it. In the end, they had come to the following agreement: he could get her whatever he wanted for her birthday, but Christmas would be homemade.

Which meant that, especially now that he wouldn’t be there, he really needed to make her something great.

But what?


	3. November 10, 1937

Brigitte launched her stupid boot across her small room, and it made a very satisfying thunk as it hit the wall. The offending item then landed with its sole facing her, almost as if the hole she’d discovered when she had tromped through a slush puddle was mocking her. _Stupid early snow and stupid boot,_ she thought to herself.

She sagged down onto the bed. Nothing was going right this week. A hole in her boot. Too much work. Two exams. And, to top it all off, a few days ago she had received Bobby’s latest letter, in which he informed her that he would be unable to see her this Christmas after all.

She turned her head towards her desk where his letter still sat, awaiting her reply. Feeling the need to torture herself again, she picked it up and skimmed to the relevant section.

_My love, I’m now on the train back to New Haven. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I won’t be coming to see you at Christmas. I talked to my mom about it, and she said she would not allow me to spend the holiday away from home, and if I came to see you after Christmas, there would be too little time left to justify the cost of the trip. I argued and pleaded, but she would not budge. Unfortunately I do not have the money to come (without their support) or I would._

_I do not think I have the words to tell you how upset I am. And I feel terrible that I have probably just made you very sad as well. I miss you so much, Brigitte. I feel like I left a piece of my heart with you when I left France; it aches constantly. I know you’re against it, but, in moments like this, I wish I could quit university and come be with you in Paris. Then I could be with you. Not only for this Christmas, but for every Christmas._

Brigitte let the letter fall from her fingers. She’d read this passage several times over the last couple days, and each time it caused a knot to form in the back of her throat. She wanted to write back _fuck it, yes, I’ll marry you, just come to Paris._

She took a breath.

This was just her emotions talking, not common sense. She was just tired and annoyed. And a little lonely. Not that she didn’t have friends, quite the contrary: she’d found it pleasantly easy to find friends among her classmates. But none of them would keep her bed warm at night the way Bobby would.

If she would just let him. 

She gripped the pillow tighter. How pathetic was she at the moment? Crying in her bed because her boyfriend couldn’t come see her? She must live a pretty good life if this was her biggest problem.

Her eyes fell on the discarded boot. Actually _that_ was her largest problem at the moment. She didn’t have any other boots, and her other shoes would in no way keep her feet warm and dry. Thinking about how much it would cost to resole it, she shuddered. She’d have to write home and ask for the money. But she didn’t want to do that. Maybe she could just have them patch it and avoid puddles while she saved up for a new pair?

_Well, I guess this means no more afternoon café au lait with the girls…_

She sighed. Well, warm feet were slightly better than coffee.

As she sat up, the letter rustled, bringing Bobby back to the forefront of her thoughts. She still needed to write him, and it was already late on Sunday afternoon.

Brigitte only hoped she could hide her disappointment that he wasn’t coming when she responded. Bobby already felt bad enough without her adding to it.

Sitting up, Brigitte wiped the tears from her face, and set to work.


	4. November 25, 1937

Bobby took a deep breath, feeling his throat slightly burn as he took in the cold fall air. It wasn’t all that chilly, but the shock coming from the stuffy and crowded house had caused his body to rebel for a moment. He quickly moved away from the shade of the awning and out into the sun, in order to reap what little warmth it was providing.

Aimlessly walking around the yard, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets… only to feel a letter in the pocket.

Brigitte’s latest letter. It had been in his mail slot when he’d left his residence hall yesterday. He’d read it on the train home, and had shoved it in his pocket and forgotten it there.

He was still perplexed by it. Normally, Brigitte wrote in a formal, yet fond, manner. But this letter; it was different.

He pulled the letter out again and began to read.

_November 10, 1937_

_Dear Bobby,_

_Earlier this week I received your letter, dated October 18, where you wrote you aren’t coming to France after all. As you already guessed, I’m a bit upset, but since it can’t be changed, I don’t want to dwell on it. But know that I love and miss you._

_What happened this week? Well, metallurgy laboratory took nearly an entire day. And there were exams in thermodynamics and chemistry. At least the exam meant I didn’t have laboratory in chemistry this week as well. There is nothing I loathe more than chemistry laboratory. Actually there is something I loathe more: the stupid hole I just found in my winter boots! I need to take them to the cobbler to see how much it will be to repair them. Since they are the only boots I own, I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do if it snows again while the cobbler has them. Maybe Sabine has an extra pair. I think she wears a 37 as well._

_I’m sorry, I don’t know why I just ranted to you about my boots. I’m just… annoyed._

“What are you reading?”

Bobby jumped slightly at the sound of his sister’s voice. He turned to face her, folding the letter. “Nothing, Helen.”

Her blue eyes narrowed, summing him up in an instant. “Brigitte?”

Bobby sighed. He really should have known better than to try to evade Helen’s question. Just two years older than him, they had always been close. He’d been confiding to her about Brigitte since almost the moment he got back from France. “Yeah, Brigitte.”

She smiled sympathetically. “You’re missing her today?” A light chuckle escaped her lips. “Although I don’t know what she would make of all this if she were here.”

Bobby couldn’t help but laugh as well. “Oh, Brigitte would hate the ‘Davis Thanksgiving Extravaganza’.” He imagined it, Brigitte trying to make small talk in English and becoming _very_ frustrated. But then his mind drifted to the stunning dress he was sure she would wear, clinging in all the right places. And how he could help her out of said garment... _Why are you torturing yourself?!_

Helen must have seen his face fall. “Did something happen? This doesn’t seem like your normal, ‘I miss Brigitte’ mopey-ness.”

Bobby shrugged. “Nothing really. It’s just that I just got her response to me not being able to visit her.”

When he didn’t continue, Helen prompted, “And?”

“It was just a weird letter. I think she’s more upset about the whole thing than she wanted to tell me.”

“She probably didn’t want to make you feel any worse than you already do about getting her hopes up.”  

Bobby stuffed the letter back into his pocket. “I suppose so. But you want to know the worst part?”

Helen merely raised her eyebrows at the rhetorical question.

“I finally know what to get her for Christmas, and she won’t even accept it!”

Helen just stared at him for a moment. “I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t she?”

“She wants to exchange handmade gifts,” Bobby replied, rolling his eyes. “And of course my idea isn’t handmade. So I don’t know what I’m going to give her.”

One side of Helen’s mouth raised in a small grin. “Well, I think it’s sweet.”

“Sweet or not, I have no idea what in the hell I’m going to make her.”

Helen looked at him in mock disapproval. “Such language! Mom would threaten to wash your mouth out with soap.”

Bobby glared at his sister, then sighed. “But seriously? Any ideas?”

Helen pushed her lips for a moment, before breaking out into a smile. “Maybe. We can work on it together this weekend.”


	5. November 27, 1937

“I think I might faint. Is this Brigitte in the kitchen, cooking?” Brigitte glanced up from her pot to see Simone closing the front door.

“Shut up and come give me a hug. I can’t stop stirring right now.” Brigitte grinned as Simone came over to the stove. It was an awkward embrace, with Brigitte attempting to continue stirring and Simone balancing her eight month old on her hip.

After a kiss on each cheek, Brigitte turned her attention to the little girl. “Hello, Madeleine. How are you?” she asked, placing a kiss on the top of her head. She ran her hands though the soft dark locks, thinking to herself how much the baby resembled Jean.

“Oh, she’s full of joy and shit as always,” Simone said, her voice full of wry humor as she bounced her daughter slightly. “Last night was particularly exciting, as _someone_ had a rough night of teething.”

“How much sleep did you get?”

“I don’t know… a couple hours? Not enough, that’s for sure.” Brigitte shuddered at the thought as Simone sat at the table and pulled a stuffed toy out of her bag for Madeleine.

“Is there anything that can help the pain?” Brigitte asked. Over the past year and a half, she’d been casually pumping Simone for information about pregnancy and babies, knowing that one day she’d probably be in the same situation. But as she watched Simone yawn, she was very glad that day wasn’t yet here.

“Oh, my mother told me a lot of things. Right now cold carrots seem to be a favorite. But really, she just gets so worked up that it’s not about her teeth anymore. She just wants to wail at the top of her lungs. But thankfully my mom is taking her tonight.”

Brigitte smiled as she turned her attention back to the pot. The mixture of egg whites and honey was still runny, meaning that her task of constantly stirring was not over. She’d come home this weekend so that her mother could help her make turrón de navidad for Bobby. However, her mother had just given her instructions before wandering off, leaving Brigitte to fend for herself.

A squeal of delight from Madeleine brought Brigitte back to the moment. “Are you and Jean going to do anything special while your mom has Madeleine?” Brigitte asked as she continued to stir her pot.

“Other than sleep?” Simone laughed.

“Well, maybe after you wake up you can think of something to do.” Brigitte waggled her eyebrows, suggestively.

“We’ll see,” Simone said, somewhat wistful. “It’s really true what people say. These little ones really cut into your time and energy for… recreation.”

“It’s amazing siblings exist, then.”

“Well, it’s not like ‘never’…” Simone trailed off.

Brigitte’s attention was suddenly brought back to her pot. “Mama!” Brigitte shouted through the house. “It’s thickening! Now what?!”

Maria called from her bedroom. “Just add the nuts and pour it into the pan!”

“Your mom’s been here the whole time!” Simone said in a harsh whisper. “And we’ve been talking about…”

“She’s in the other room,” Brigitte said as she added the nuts before awkwardly pouring the ever-thickening mixture into a lined casserole dish. “It’s not like she can hear. Plus, it’s kind of obvious you’ve done it at least _once_.”

“ _Still!_ ”

Brigitte chuckled, carrying the pot over to the sink. Reaching for the faucet, she still found it somewhat unjust that right _after_ she left for university was when her parents decided to fit the house with indoor plumbing. As the water ran out of the tap, it hit the still hot pan, causing a plume of steam that startled Brigitte. _I should have expected that…_

“So, are you sending Bobby the whole batch of turrón?”

Brigitte turned her head and eyed Simone as the pot filled with water. “Are you asking for a piece?”

“Maybe…” Simone said with mock innocence.

Leaving the pot to soak, she came over to sit with her cousin at the table. Brigitte reached out for Madeleine, who Simone gladly relinquished. “I suppose he won’t miss a piece or two, will he?” Brigitte directed that last part of the question at the baby on her lap, who laughed at her sudden change of tone. Brigitte smiled and, as she looked into Madeleine’s hazel eyes, she thought about what it would be like to have Bobby’s baby. Even if she wasn’t ready now, she couldn’t stop herself from imagining a miniature version of Bobby, a small boy with sandy hair and mischievous blue eyes.

 _Although first things first,_ she thought. _Let’s just try to get into the same country…_

“What’s wrong?"

Brigitte’s head snapped up and she realized her face must have been reflecting her wistful thoughts. She took in a deep breath. “I just miss Bobby sometimes,” she said, not really wanting to get into it. A couple days ago she’d gotten the letter he’d written in response to her letter from late October. The letter she’d wrote when he’d first told her he was going to come and see her. He’d told her (again) how sorry he was that he’d brought the whole thing up and how he wished more than anything to be able to spend the holiday with her. He’d talked again about dropping out of school and coming to France to be with her.

The letter had been like a knife through her heart. Just when she’d gotten over the whole incident, there it was again. Like the fates were mocking her.

She looked back up at Simone, who had stood and was crossing the kitchen to grab an orange. She spoke as she peeled it, “I’m really sorry that he can’t come. Not only because you miss him, but I think he would have really enjoyed French Christmas.”

“With some Spanish overtones.” Brigitte motioned to the turrón.

“Well, at least Auntie Maria doesn’t make you wait until Epiphany to open gifts anymore.”

Brigitte let out a harsh chuckle as Simone picked Madeleine up. Returning to her own chair, she gave the baby a section of the orange before offering a piece to Brigitte. She took it, but paused before popping it in her mouth. “You know, most of the time I think I did the right thing, telling him ‘no’. Saying we both needed to finish university first. But then…” she paused for a moment. “I’ll go out dancing with my friends and feel like I’m cheating on him when I dance with another man. Or feel depressed because I’m just standing in the corner, refusing invitations, especially during the slow dances. Or I’ll be alone on a Friday night because everyone else has a date. And then he’ll say something in a letter about dropping out and coming to marry me.” Brigitte looked away for a moment before meeting her cousin’s eyes. “And some days it’s hard not to say yes to that.”

“I know,” Simone said, grabbing her hand. “But don’t get caught up in the short term. He’ll be here next summer and everything will be great. Maybe you two can figure out a different arrangement then.”

“Maybe.” Brigitte trailed off, not really knowing what other ‘arrangements’ would actually be possible without Bobby’s family’s approval; because Bobby coming to France long-term almost certainly would _not_. “But anyway, I was thinking about taking some pictures of everyone to send to him with the turrón. Could you help me do that today? And maybe we could develop them at your dad’s pharmacy before I go back to Paris?”

Brigitte watched as Simone handed Madeleine another orange wedge. “Sure, no problem.”


	6. December 5, 1937

Bobby carefully inserted the needle into the last loop, twisting the yarn around and then passing the stitch completely to the other needle. He had to admit that the knitting did have a certain rhythmic charm to it.

He held the scarf out to examine its length. It was about four feet long now, and, although Helen had told him six feet was the traditional length for a scarf of the type he was making, Bobby thought that this was probably long enough. Brigitte was smaller than his sister, after all.

He looked over at Helen, who was curled up in her chair next to the fire, reading. Over the past two weekends he’d been working on this purple scarf with her. He’d sat with Helen in the living room of her sorority house, knitting while she read or did school work. Of course, any time one of her sorority sisters passed through, they made a big deal of his project, saying that him making this scarf was the cutest thing they’d ever seen. So, for more than one reason, he was glad to be nearing the end of this project.

He thrust the scarf at Helen, deciding that he was indeed finished with this endeavor. “I think I’m done. Can you… I don’t know, get the needle out and make it look good?”

Helen laughed as she took it from him. “I still can’t believe you spent two hours to come here to knit. Would your manly pride be so wounded if you had done it in your dorm?”

Bobby could just imagine the harassing that he would get if anyone at Yale knew that he had knitted a scarf for his girlfriend. The clucking of Helen’s friends was little irritation compared to what _his_ friends would have made of the whole thing. It had been well worth the trip from New Haven to Poughkeepsie so that he could keep that bit of information to himself. But, of course, he couldn’t admit that to Helen. “Well, I didn’t know how to finish it. So it was either this or send it to Brigitte with the needle still attached.”

“Uh huh…” Helen said, unconvinced, as she finished off the scarf. “Well, here you are. One completed handmade scarf.”

Bobby took the scarf from Helen’s outstretched hand. He’d known, as he was knitting it, that it wasn’t the best scarf ever, but seeing it now completed… It wasn’t a constant width. The stitches weren’t very uniform. And there were several dropped stitches… “Helen, are you sure this is okay?”

She looked at the scarf, and then at him. “Well, it’s a good first attempt.”

“In other words, it's shit,” Bobby said as he tossed it away. _Fuck. Now what?_ He needed to send her gift in the next couple days. There wasn’t time to start over or make something else.

“Bobby, if she loves you, she’ll love the scarf. It really isn’t that bad.”

Bobby reached out for the scarf again. He ran his fingers along the soft yarn, briefly imagining Brigitte wearing it. “I guess it’s not that bad. I just don’t see why she would want this rather than something nice.”

“Don’t you think the fact that she doesn’t want expensive things is a good thing? It means she likes _you_ and not just your money,” Helen said as took a sip of her tea.

Bobby shrugged. Sure, he knew that some women (and men) were fixated on their family’s wealth, but he already knew Brigitte wasn’t. So why was it necessary to send her crap for Christmas? He looked at the sad scarf again and sighed. Maybe he could send a little something extra along…

“Anyway, when are you done with classes?” Helen asked, her voice cutting into his thoughts.

“I think around the seventeenth,” he replied.

“Ah, I think I’m done about a week before you.” She paused for a moment, thinking. “Maybe I’ll go skiing with Julia during that time. I don’t think I can take a week of Mom and Dad on my own. I’m not Maggie, after all.”

Bobby nodded in agreement. When Helen still lived at home, he had sensed the tension between her and their parents as she entered into young adulthood. Granted, it wasn’t as explosive as his own relationship with their father, but Helen tended to not agree with anything either of their parents thought. She just knew how to keep her mouth shut better than he did.

In any case, neither of them could hold a candle to the perfection that was their older sister, Maggie. But they had also given up trying long ago.

“Speaking of Maggie, do you know when she is coming home?” Bobby asked.

“Not until Christmas Day. She and Eric are spending Christmas Eve at his family’s house.”

 _What?_ Bobby’s mind screamed internally. So it was okay for Maggie to spend the holidays away from the family but not him? “She is, is she?” was all he voiced, however.

Helen looked at him, askance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bobby shrugged. “Nothing. I mean… it’s just that Mom told me I couldn’t go to see Brigitte because it wasn’t appropriate for me to spend Christmas away from the family.”

Helen still looked a bit confused. “I know. But Maggie will be there Christmas Day, and she and Eric are engaged now. It’s a different situation.”

“Not that different,” Bobby blurted out before he could stop himself.

“What?!” Helen’s eyes went wide and she sat forward. “Are you and Brigitte engaged!? Bobby! How could you not tell me!?”

“No, I mean, kind of…” Bobby stammered. _Oh God._ He hadn’t told Helen this part of the story for a reason. It really sounded ridiculous when it was all said out loud.

“Bobby. Details. _Now_.”

So he told her. Well, he told her a cleaned up version of what had happened. She was still his sister and there were things he was _not_ comfortable talking with her about. And naked Brigitte was one of those things. “And so… I suppose we’re engaged to be engaged.” Helen stared at him with a look of amused shock on her face, but didn’t say anything. To fill the silence, Bobby continued, “So, after I graduate, that’s when I’m supposed to ask her again.”

Helen chuckled. “Oh, you two are just too much.” She smiled at him affectionately. “I hope it works out.” Then her eyes narrowed. “Wait. When _you_ graduate? But won’t she still have another year of school? Or is she going to quit school to come here?”

Bobby shifted uncomfortably under Helen’s scrutiny. “Oh. Um. Look, you can’t tell Mom and Dad.”

She leaned in towards her brother. “Oh no, Bobby, what can’t I tell them?”

“I…” He started, but then paused. He hadn’t shared his plans to move to France after graduation with anyone, knowing what would happen if his father found out. Bobby quickly tried to think of a different story to tell Helen, but it was too late. _In for a penny..._ Taking a deep breath, he blurted out. “She’s not going to move to New York. I’m going to move to France.”

Helen’s eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped. “Bobby! You can’t just do that! What would Mom and Dad say?”

Bobby glared at her. “They won’t say _anything_ , because you aren’t going to tell them!”

“Well, they’re going to find out when you up and move to France!” she snapped back.

“We can cross that bridge when we get there,” Bobby replied, lamely.

He watched as his sister’s mouth worked, obviously struggling to find words. “But… but Dad… Dad won’t let you!” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Are you not going to work for Dad when you graduate? He—everything is set up assuming you are taking over eventually. You can’t just run off to France!”

Bobby sighed. “I don’t want to work for Dad. I never have. You know that, Helen.” He shook his head. “Some days, I don’t know if I can even make it to graduation. Some days, I think about dropping everything and just moving now.”

“Bobby…”

“I know, I know. Brigitte is against it anyway.” But his mind flashed to living in a little apartment with Brigitte in Paris, and, as always when he pictured it, a kind of peace washed over him. Looking back up at Helen, he knew she would keep on this topic if he didn’t change the subject. “Speaking of ways one can upset our parents, is Andrew going to get formally introduced to the family this year?”

A pained expression crossed over Helen’s face. “Actually, we just split up.”

Bobby frowned. As far as he knew, Andrew was Helen’s first boyfriend, and it had seemed like she’d hit the jackpot on the first try. He was intelligent, funny… good looking, as far as Bobby could tell. Bobby wouldn’t have minded at all if he joined the family. He was much more interesting than Eric, that was for sure. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said.

Helen waved her hand. “It’s alright, it ended on good terms. In a way I’m a little relieved. I mean, can you just imagine when they asked how we met? Oh, Daddy, we worked on Roosevelt’s reelection campaign together…”

“Hey, at least Andrew came from money. Dad refused to even meet Brigitte and her family.” Resurfacing that memory made Bobby fume about it all over again. What a stuck up son of a bitch his father could be sometimes.

“Bobby, I hope that once they get to know her, they’ll love her as much as you do.” He looked up at Helen’s words, unable to quite read the expression on her face. What did that mean? What did Helen envision when Brigitte did finally make it to America?

However, before he could respond, Helen spoke again. “But one thing is for sure, I can’t wait to meet the woman who has tied down my little brother.”

“I can’t wait for you to meet her either,” he responded, his heart automatically lifted by thinking about that scenario. He knew that Helen and Brigitte would get along famously. “But until then, you’ll just have to help me knit her things.”

Both of their attentions were brought back to the misshapen purple scarf on the couch next to Bobby.

“You know,” Helen began, “maybe it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to send something else along. You know, just a little something.”

 _Oh, thank God_ , Bobby thought. He knew something purchased was explicitly not what Brigitte had asked for, but he really had the perfect idea. And Helen was just the person to help him pick it out. “I’m glad you think so. Because I do have an idea. You want to go shopping?”

Helen set down her tea. “When have you ever known me to _not_ want to shop?”


	7. December 25, 1937

Brigitte sat next to the fire, her feet tucked up under her nightgown, as her father opened his last gift. She watched as a wide smile appeared on his face as he recognized it. “Oh, the cookies from the patisserie near your school!”

Brigitte nodded. “I remember how obsessed you were with them. I hope they are not too stale.”

Her father shook his head. “I’m sure even stale these cookies would still be some of the best I’ve ever eaten.”

“Better than my cookies?” Maria asked, in mock disappointment.

“I love eating _all_ your cookies,” her father said in a tone that caused Brigitte to let out a slightly horrified chuckle. She’d noticed her parents had become more open with her and more physically affectionate with each other since she’d left for university. Maybe having the house to themselves had reminded them what it was like to be in their twenties again.

Brigitte chose not to dwell too much on exactly what that meant.

Shaking her head, Maria turned to Brigitte. “You are the only one with a gift left.”

The last gift of Christmas: the rather large box that had arrived from America earlier that week. Brigitte grabbed the box, and with the pocketknife her father handed her, cut through the tape and opened the package.

Laying on top of the colorfully wrapped present, there was a sealed envelope that, in large letters, read ‘WAIT UNTIL CHRISTMAS, THEN READ ME FIRST!’

“Well, what is it?” Maria asked.

Brigitte pulled out the letter. “I don’t know yet. It says to read this first.” She ripped open the letter and began to read, silently.

_December 7, 1937_

_My Love,_

_Merry Christmas! I wish I could be there to sit next to the fire with you and say that in person, but, unfortunately, I am not, so this will have to do. But I will be thinking of you all day on Christmas, so know you are in my thoughts (not that you are ever very far from my thoughts…)_

_I have two gifts for you this year. The first is in the red wrapping paper. Open it now, please._

Brigitte set the letter to the side and reached into the box, pulling out a limp and lightweight gift. When she lifted it out, she noted a second, larger gift; a box wrapped in plain brown paper. _That must be the second gift_ , she thought as she set about carefully opening the present in her hands. 

“What did the letter say?” her father asked.

Brigitte spoke as she continued to carefully remove the tape. “Merry Christmas and open this one first.” She finally got the last piece of tape off and removed a purple wool object. Unfolding it, she realized it was a scarf. Well, she was pretty sure it was a scarf.

Brigitte picked the letter back up.

_Have you opened it?_

_Okay, first, let me apologize. I know it is not very good, but it is what I made. It was my first attempt at knitting, and Helen said it was not terrible, and well… by the time I finished it there was not time to start over. But I did think that the purple would look nice on you. Not that you would ever wear this out in public. Maybe around the house? In any case, I wanted to send it because I did make it for you, but it is not very good, so I wanted to send you a second gift._

“Is it a scarf?” Maria asked, interrupting Brigitte’s reading.

“Yes,” she said, passing it to her mother. “He knitted it for me, himself.”

“He knits?” Philippe asked, somewhat incredulous.

“Don’t you have a daughter that rebuilds engines?” Brigitte snapped back in a mocking tone. She saw her father stiffen, and instantly regretted her sharp tongue. “Sorry, Papa,” she said, before continuing. “He learned to knit so that he could make this for me. It’s his first project.”

Her parents were still looking askance at the lumpy scarf as she turned her attention back to his letter.

_So, I thought for my second present I would write you a love poem._

Brigitte looked back at the box, not understanding what the brown wrapped object was if her second present was a poem.

_I started out trying to write it in French, but, well, that was a huge failure. I may be able to write you love letters in French, but not love poetry. So I switched to English. After I made many attempts, I discovered I am simply not a poet. Prose, no problem, but poetry... Well, none of it was any better than the scarf._

_This was the best one, so, with apologies, here it is:_

_You are my moon._  
_I feel you pull me,_  
_The tides of my emotions ebb and flow with you._  
_I see you nightly,_  
_In my mind’s eye, you bare yourself._  
_You give me light,_  
_In the hours when I think there will only be darkness._  
_Yet we are apart._  
_We cannot touch._  
_But gravity will pull us back together._  
_And the collision will reverberate through the universe._

Brigitte slowly read the poem, realizing that she was going to have to look up a couple of the words that Bobby had used. But the meaning was clear enough: they were bound together. She smiled, the poem reminding her of the night that they had laid under the stars and she had talked about going to the moon.

“What else did he get you?”

Brigitte was brought out of her reverie, realizing there was still the question of the object left in the box. “I don’t know yet,” she replied, turning back to the letter.

_Merry Christmas, my love! I really hope you enjoy the presents. Know that I am thinking of you and that my love is always with you. I wish I could see you open these gifts (if for no other reason than to see your reaction to the scarf) and I really hope you have a wonderful day with your family. Please give them my love and wish them a Merry Christmas for me as well._

“Bobby sends his love to you two,” Brigitte spoke aloud while still reading.

_On to other matters, I have sent along a little something else, in no way related to Christmas. It is the box wrapped in brown paper (since it has nothing to do with Christmas I did not wrap it in Christmas paper, obviously). Go ahead and open it._

Brigitte furrowed her eyebrows. “He says that the other thing in the box has nothing to do with Christmas.”

“That’s strange,” her mother commented as Brigitte pulled out the simply wrapped package. Ripping open the paper, she realized it was a large shoebox. That only served to further confuse her. _What in the world was he up to?_ Opening the box revealed a pair of chocolate brown, mid-calf, lace up boots. They had a thick, yet stylish three-centimeter heel. Brigitte slowly picked one of the boots up out of the box, feeling the supple leather beneath her fingers. She slid it on to her foot, and it fit. _How did he…_ she wondered, but then her mind flashed back to that letter, the one she had written right after she’d found the hole in her boot. She shook her head as she smiled. _Not a Christmas present my ass…_

“Why are these boots not a Christmas present?” her mother asked, almost echoing her thoughts.

Brigitte looked up to meet her mother’s perplexed expression. “I told Bobby that I only wanted handmade gifts. So to get around that rule, he said that.”

“Well, they were handmade by someone…” her father said with a smile, reaching for the boot that was still in the box. “They’re very nice.”

Brigitte nodded in agreement as she looked back down at the letter.

_You complained some time ago about having a hole in your boot. I really hope these fit and are comfortable. Helen helped me pick them out. She tried on a larger size and said they were quite nice (and stylish). I do hope they work for you and that you like them. And remember: they are not for Christmas! They are because your feet were wet. And I could not bear that thought._

_Merry Christmas and all my love,_

_Bobby_

 

That evening, after they had all feasted on Christmas dinner, after they had sat around for hours talking and drinking, after all the relatives had finally gone home, Brigitte was alone in her room. She slowly unlaced her new boots and removed her clothes before pulling on her nightgown. Crawling into bed, she grabbed the letter from Bobby and the scarf he’d knitted. Running her fingers along the soft wool, she read the poem again. She could almost imagine him laying behind her, speaking these words against her skin, his hot breath on her neck, his hands running along her hips and thighs, then making their way over her stomach to her breasts. She closed her eyes tightly. Part of her longed to fall into the fantasy of having Bobby there with her, while the other part couldn’t bear to be reminded of his absence.  

She sighed, set the letter on her bedside table and then reached for the lamp. In the dark, she could feel the scarf that he’d spent hours holding, hours creating, just for her. She balled it up and held it close to her chest.

It was the only piece of him she had at the moment.

It would have to suffice.

 

* * *

 

Bobby sat in the parlor in what had to be the most uncomfortable chair in the house. He couldn’t help but fidget. Not because he was impatient to open presents (like when he was young), but because he was wearing a full suit, sitting next to a roaring fire, in a chair that was somehow both too soft and too firm.

The family was slowly going in a circle, opening their gifts. As usual, it was quiet and controlled. His sister Maggie was writing down what each person received so that a proper thank you note could be sent. His father had already commented on the tacky and cheap gifts a cousin had sent.

In other words: Christmas in the Davis household.

Later, there would be a formal dinner with all the extended family. When Bobby was young he had liked that part, since his cousins all came over and then would run around outside. But now… his cousins were all as uptight and dull as his parents and running around outside was frowned upon at his age. In a weird way he wished that his generation would start having children, just so he could run around outside again with them.

It sounded much better than talking with his drunk uncle about how Roosevelt was a crook who was packing the courts with judges sympathetic to the New Deal.

The long and short of it was that Bobby really longed to be in France right now.

He shifted again as his mother opened her final gift. She pulled out a heavily jeweled necklace, a gift from his father. “Oh, Robert,” his mother gasped, as his father took the necklace out of her hands in order to place it on her neck. “It’s absolutely stunning.”

“I’m glad you like it, Evelyn.” Bobby knew his father would have had no part in actually picking it out. He would have sent a secretary to the usual jeweler who already knew his mother’s tastes. It was the same way every year. This was probably the first time he’d seen the thing.

“Oh, Mom, that looks fantastic on you,” Maggie said, rising to approach in order to get a closer look.

“Thank you, dear,” his mother replied. She then turned her attention to Bobby. “Bobby, honey, looks like you’re the only one with a gift left.”

Bobby looked down at the small box by his feet. He’d contemplated not even bringing Brigitte’s present down, as he knew it would be simple and, in this crowd, taken the wrong way. But if it looked like she had sent nothing that would be bad too.

Picking up the box, Bobby took a breath and opened it. In the box was a tin, the type you give cookies or candies in, as well as two envelopes. He grabbed the one that was addressed to him. Ripping it open, he read.

_December 9, 1937_

_Dear Bobby,_

_I hope you’re waiting until Christmas to open your gifts. And if you’ve opened this letter too soon, stop reading! Don’t spoil the holiday!_

He smiled at this. Brigitte was scolding him from across the sea… of course she was.

“Bobby, who’s it from?” his mother asked.

Bobby jerked his head up. “It’s from Brigitte.”

“Well, are you just going to silently read the letter while the rest of us just watch?”

The tone of his mother’s voice implied that saying ‘yes’ to this was not the correct answer.

“Well, it’s all in French, so…” Bobby trailed off.

“Translate for us then,” his mother replied, settling back into her chair.

Bobby groaned internally before turning back to the letter. At least he could filter as he translated.

_I’m correct in assuming it’s now Christmas, right?_

_I would first like to wish you and your family a Merry Christmas. I hope you all are having a pleasant day filled with good food and family. To specifically you, Bobby, I send all my love and the hope that we will soon be reunited. You are often in my thoughts (at times driving me to distraction… but only in the best way) and to be with you again… I don’t have the proper words to describe how happy I’ll be on that day. But I will properly express myself when I am able to see you again._

“She wishes all of us a Merry Christmas and hopes it is filled with good food and family,” Bobby reported, leaving the other bit out.

_I have sent along two items. The first, in the tin, is turrón de navidad. It’s a traditional Spanish treat at Christmas time, one that my mother has made every year. This was my first attempt at making it. I must apologize for taking a piece to sample (Simone and my mother send similar apologies), but we all agree that what I’ve sent you is at least representative of what turrón should taste like. I hope you enjoy it, and please feel free to share with your family._

Bobby looked back into the box at the tin. Picking it up, he said, “She made a traditional Spanish Christmas candy for us. She says I should share it with all of you.” He popped open the tin, taking out a square of the slightly tacky candy. “Wow, this is great,” he said, his mouth full of the sticky treat.

He passed the tin on to Helen, who also took a piece.

“I thought she was French,” Margaret said as she, then Eric, took a square.

“She is, but her mother is Spanish,” Bobby replied as he watched his mom pass the tin directly to his father without taking a piece.

“You don’t want one?” his father asked, taking a piece for himself.

“Oh, that Mexican candy looks a bit rich for me this early in the day. Maybe later.”

Bobby started to correct his mother, but stopped. He didn’t want to get into any arguments on Christmas. But he did share a pained look with Helen before rising to collect the tin from his father, who was taking a second piece.

“This stuff’s actually pretty good, son,” he said, handing the tin back to Bobby.

 _Why are you so surprised?_ “Yes, it is,” Bobby replied, biting his tongue, repeating his ‘no fights on Christmas’ mantra. Returning to the chair, he continued to read.

_The other item I have sent (the other envelope) has some photographs that we took this weekend. You should recognize everyone, but just to assuage any doubts, the baby is Madeleine (who, in my opinion, is growing up far too fast). Simone suggested I pose like a pinup model, and, well, you can see the somewhat awkward results. Hopefully you find them… appealing._

_Not translating any of that…_ Bobby thought, as he read on.

_My parents and Simone send their love and Christmas wishes as well. My parents wanted me to relay that they would like to host you at our home when you come this summer (again, assuming the living room is acceptable), and they hope you are doing well at university and generally in life._

“Her parents send their greetings to all of us and have welcomed me to stay at their house when I go to France next summer.” Bobby translated, wondering if that last part was a mistake to say aloud.

“They have an extra room for you? It’s not proper for you to stay in the same room as Brigitte.” He could see his mother was bristling at the thought.

“Yes, they have an extra room. Her parents agree with you that it’s not appropriate for Brigitte and me to be unchaperoned.” Bobby knew it was something of a white lie, but at the same time, Philippe and Maria would never allow them to share a bed before they were married. So… not a complete untruth.

“Still.” His mother said, obviously not thrilled with the thought.

Bobby turned back to the letter.

_My love, at times like this, I wish I was more verbose and expressive. However, I do not know how to put into words what you mean to me. Or how much I miss you. So I will just say this: I love you and hope to see you soon._

_Much Love and Many Christmas Greetings,_

_Brigitte_

“That’s basically the end. Just Merry Christmas again.” Bobby said, completely uncomfortable translating Brigitte’s words of love.

“Well, it was nice of her to send a little candy,” her mother said, in the same tone she used when she got handmade ornaments from a five year old. In other words: not impressed.

With the gifts now all opened, Bobby was free until relatives started to arrive. Gathering up his presents, he headed up to his room, dropping most of them near the door, but taking Brigitte’s gifts over to his bed. Opening the other envelope, he slowly pulled out a small stack of photographs. The top one was of Brigitte and her parents, posing in the garden. There were several of these, followed by Brigitte with Simone and Madeleine. Brigitte was right, Bobby could hardly believe that child was the baby that Simone had been pregnant with when he last saw her. He shook his head slightly. That baby was actually the physical representation of how long he and Brigitte had been apart. From how old that child looked, it had been far too long.

Moving through the pictures, there were some of just Brigitte, where obviously Simone had told her to do different poses. His favorite was the one where she had used her arms to try to create cleavage, mostly because in the next one Brigitte was obviously yelling at Simone for having taken the picture. He was a bit surprised she’d sent these, but very glad she did. It was almost as though if he flipped through them fast enough, he could create a movie of Brigitte.

Continuing through the stack, his jaw almost hit the floor when he saw what she had described as the ‘pinup’ ones. They were taken in Brigitte’s room, and she had put on the swimsuit he’d bought her. Simone had her in a variety of poses. One that showed off her legs. Another her ass. Yet another where she was bending over and he could see most of her breasts. Although Bobby had, of course, seen much more of her than this, he only had memories of that. Here, in his hands, was as close as he would get to actually seeing a naked Brigitte for another six months. He could feel his body responding to these pictures, and immediately started to put them to the side. He didn’t have time for that right now. Quickly going through the ‘sexy’ pictures, he finally hit the last one in the stack. It was Brigitte, still in the swimsuit, lifting Madeleine into the air. The child had obviously grown restless with watching the photo-shoot and Brigitte was trying to entertain her.

It was the most beautiful picture of the bunch. Both Brigitte and the child were smiling. He just stared at it a moment, allowing himself to fantasize about leaving school and marrying Brigitte right now. And that it was their baby she was lifting into the air, with that smile on her face.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. “Yes?” he called.

It was Maggie. “Grandma and Grandpa Carrington are here. So mom wants us all downstairs.”

Bobby nodded. “I’ll be there in just a minute.”

As she turned to leave, Bobby looked down at the picture one more time. He could see it, his entire future was right there, in that photograph.

He just had to reach out and grab it.

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for waiting patiently for Autumn. We'd love to hear what you thought of this piece. Comments and kudos are the best Christmas gifts! 
> 
> We wish you all Happy Holidays and a prosperous New Year!


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